


At Last

by beetle



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Post-Chosen, post-nfa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Spander132 prompt: "busy." Xander is running out of time and Spike is very busy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Busy

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Post-NFA by five years; oblique spoilers for Ats S5.

“Don’t go,” Xander whispers as Spike shrugs on his duster.  
  
The pause is so infinitesimal; anyone who wasn’t Xander would’ve missed it completely. “Have to, love. Have to.”  
  
“No, you don’t. You could stay here, with me.” Xander’s tone is easy, reasonable. It’s the last thing Spike expects and the thing he’s least equipped to deal with. He turns to look at his boyfriend, shocked, as always, by the pallor and weariness stamped on the beloved face.   
  
Xander smiles and there are tears in his eyes.  
  
“Stay with me, William,” he says one last time, a shaking hand extended for Spike to take, to hold, to keep.  
  
With every ounce of willpower in him, Spike turns away. “I’ll be back before dawn.”  
  
“I don’t think you will.” Xander’s voice is soft and hopeless as Spike gently closes their bedroom door.  
  


*

  
  
The club is a press of hormones, writhing, sweaty bodies and flashing lights.  
  
Armored in a red silk shirt and painted on jeans, Spike slips easily through the crowd, his sneer and attitude parting the dancers as surely as a laser.  
  
Once he’s reached the the epi-center of the crowd--the place reserved for those who want to see and be seen--he closes his eyes and starts nodding to the music. Slowly, as if there’s no one else in the world, the rest of his body picks up the rhythm.  
  
The song changes once, twice. Spike changes with it. The press of bodies around him thickens, then thins.   
  
By his fourth song, there’s only one body close to his own . . . clad in silk and leather, a distinct chill wafts off it. In the flash and strobe of the lights, Spike can make out a pale face, cruel smile and eyes like holes. Large, strong hands touch his body--hips, thighs, chest, ass--pull him closer, turn him.   
  
Spike leans back into the marble-hard body.  
  
“You’re very beautiful,” a soft, mildly accented voice says, cool lips brushing his earlobe in an ephemeral kiss.  
  
“And you’re very dead,” Spike returns, grinding into the hardness pressed against his ass. The hands sliding up and down his chest still for a moment, then resume their wandering. The buttons on Spike’s shirt are slowly twisted off and cool hands flatten and spread across his chest.  
  
“Ah,” the vampire says softly. And: “I see.”  
  
“Do you?” Spike asks, shivering as icy fingertips brush his nipples.  
  
“If you wish to be dead, as well, I would be honored to assist you.” A mockery of humanity and solicitousness, this voice and the caresses turn into pinches that are  _just_  this side of painful.  
  
“Death? Been there, done that, came back with some lovely souvenirs.” Spike leans his head back on his dance partner’s shoulder; sees a flash of dark, amused eyes before the vampire presses his mouth against the damp skin of Spike’s neck.  
  
“I could drain you in the middle of this club and my minions would dispose of the corpse before anyone even noticed you were gone,” those cool lips whisper on Spike’s jugular.   
  
“You know what I want, Korely. You know I’ve been asking around.”  
  
“And what if I do?”  
  
“Then you know I’m looking to make a bargain, mate.”  
  
Korely’s amused chuckle is audible over the repetitious stylings of the house DJ. “You are beautiful, but beauty is very common coin in this day and age. You have nothing with which to bargain.” Another soft, cold press of lips against Spike’s temple. “So good-night, lovely one.”  
  
And just like that, Spike is alone, surrounded by strangers who’d instinctively kept their distance when Korely was on the floor.  
  
“I can give you William the Bloody,” Spike says to the sea of humanity that surges and shakes around him. But he knows this is a lie. Korely probably knows it’s a lie, too . . . if he’s even still listening.  
  
Either way, Spike’s rhythm is lost, now; he’s merely being pushed to and fro by the mob.   
  
Off to the next club, then.  
  


**Thursday**

  
  
This night, Spike gets home several hours before dawn.   
  
He limps to their bedroom because his leg still aches from the throw-down earlier that night. He hasn’t been able to take one alive--so to speak--and he’s getting desperate.  
  
Getting sloppy.  
  
Xander is a still, diminished lump under heavy blankets, too weak to toss, some nights. Too tired to turn, others. It’s painful to watch him sleep, but watch Spike does.  
  
And after nearly twenty minutes of silently contemplating his mate, he limps to the bathroom, trying not to wince and groan at his myriad aches and pains. A hot shower helps somewhat, though Spike thinks one of his ribs may be cracked. Rather than go to the emergency room, he takes eight or ten aspirin--no point in keeping track, anymore--and crawls into bed next to his slumbering boyfriend.   
  
“Spike,” Xander sighs and almost smiles, snuggling instinctively against Spike.  
  
“Shh, I’m here, pet. Safe and sound with you.”  
  
Paper-thin eyelids struggle open and dark, pain- and exhaustion-glazed eyes meet Spike’s own.  
  
“Sweetie-pie.” Xander smiles sleepily at the face Spike makes, stretching like a cat under the assault of reassuring nuzzles and caresses.  
  
“Only you could get away with that, whelp.”  
  
“All talk. . . .”  
  
“I’ll show you all talk,” Spike mock-growls and kisses Xander gently. He ignores the bitter taste of sickness and mortality, seeking the sweetness that is simply  _Xander_.   
  
He doesn’t have to seek for long; he never has.  
  
The kiss deepens, as it hasn’t in what feels like years. Soon, Xander’s hand is slipping down tentatively Spike’s chest and abdomen.  
  
“Don’t, love,” Spike pulls away, catching Xander’s hand.  
  
“I know I’m not exactly hot stuff right now. Or ever, really, but I need you, Spike.” Brutal, naked honesty that makes Spike feel like exalted pond-scum.  
  
He pulls Xander’s hand up to his lips and kisses it. “You’re  _beautiful_ , pet . . . but I can’t. Don’t wanna hurt you.” Spike isn’t crying, but they both hear the unshed tears of frustration in his voice.  
  
“Baby--at this point, there’s really nothing we could do that would make me any worse. It’s been pretty down-hill, since this whole mess started. I’m not getting any weller.” Xander’s eyes twinkle with their old humor. “So, just close your eyes and think of England, old boy . . . make love to me.”  
  
“I miss being in you, miss touching you, miss tasting you.” Spike holds Xander closer and smiles. “Miss that stupid face you make when you come--”   
  
“It’s not a-- _stupid_  face . . . it’s . . . unique.”   
  
“--but I won’t put you at risk just to satisfy my bloody libido.”  
  
“So, by us not fucking, what do we gain? An extra hour? Two, maybe?” Xander scoffs.  
  
“Love--” Spike rolls away from temptation, sitting up. And despite what Xander may think, temptation’s exactly what he is, even now.  
  
“Okay--how ‘bout I stroke you off and lick my fingers when you come? I’m willing to compromise.”   
  
Spike shakes his head no; he has no doubt Xander’d just use that to twist him into knots till he got his way.  
  
“Fine. Fine,” Xander snaps. “If you don’t want me, you should just say so, you know. A little rejection never killed anyone. Oh, wait a minute.”  
  
Spike tenses and the breath he’d been holding explodes out of him. For long minutes, they sit in uncomfortable silence. As usual, Xander’s the one who’s brave enough--dumb enough--to break it.  
  
“Spike--I didn’t mean--”  
  
But Spike’s already out of their bed and throwing on clothes.   
  
“I’m sorry, Spike, I didn’t mean that . . . I’m stupid jerk, just--don’t leave me again,” Xander pleads, though Spike leaving is a foregone conclusion.  
  
“You know why I’m doing it, Xander.  _All_  of it.” Spike winces at the harshness in his own voice.  
  
“You already went out once tonight, Spike--God, you’re covered in bruises and  _limping_! Haven’t you had enough!” Xander sounds like he’s about to cry. Spike doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to know, if he is. He laces up his Docs quickly.  
  
“Doin’ this for you.” Which of them he’s trying harder to convince is up for grabs.  
  
“No, you’re not! I  _told_  you, I don’t want--”  
  
“I can’t live without you,” Spike growls. “I bloody-well refuse to. The end of you is the end of me.”  
  
“Don’t say that. . . .”  
  
“What? That when you’re gone, there’s no point in me hanging around, being miserable?” Spike snorts and stands up. Pats himself down, not for cigarettes, but the several small daggers he’s taken to carrying.  
  
Check and double check.  
  
“God, you’re a heartless bastard, sometimes.”   
  
If this is an argument, then Xander’s broken voice has just declared Spike the winner.   
  
Funny . . . he doesn’t  _feel_  like a winner at all.  
  
He shrugs on his duster, again, and turns to look at Xander. He’s laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, tears running down the side of his pale, grey face and into his ear.  
  
“Do you just--not want to be here when I. . . ?” Xander swipes at the sides of his face. “I understand if you can’t be here when it happens, but please, don’t be reckless with your life. Please come back.”  
  
Spike opens his mouth, wants to make a promise he knows he won’t keep. Instead he makes the one he has kept for the past week. For the past century.  
  
“I’ll be back before dawn, love.” The same gentle and implacable voice he’d used when Dru was at her worst.  
  
“Stay with me, William.  _Please_. It’s . . . close.”  
  
Spike looks away. “Could get Red or the Slayer--”  
  
“I don’t  _want_  them, I want  _you_!” Xander whispers fiercely, turning his head just enough to see Spike. “I can’t live without you, either and I don’t wanna  _die_  without you. Please . . . don’t let me die without you.”  
  
“Before dawn,” Spike promises again. Then he’s gone.  
  


**Friday**

  
  
It’s been seven nights since Xander was infected.  
  
Six nights since he had the near-orgasmic pleasure of putting an end to the bitch responsible.  
  
But this is only the fifth night Spike’s trawled the alleys and secret ways of the city.   
  
He doesn’t know if it’s a leftover bit of sixth sense from  _before_  or if the man he’d been, once upon another century, had possessed a psychic twinkle, but he’s still got a nose for the weird.   
  
Whatever the explanation, Spike has used that sense ruthlessly over the past seven nights, nevermind the danger, nevermind the migraine building in his skull this very moment. Nevermind that his body is now one constant ache when he gets home.  
  
Xander is awake when Spike peers into the bedroom.  
  
“You’re back early,” he says, in a voice that’s too neutral to be real. In the faint light from the hallway, his eyes seem to glow like coals in a forge.  
  
When Spike steps into the room, his left arm in a sling and cast, the facade of neutrality falls away.  
  
“Sweetie, c’mere!” Xander’s shoving back the blankets, trying to stand up. Spike rushes to his bedside.  
  
“No, don’t get up, love. I’m--I’m alright, just got myself a busted wing. E.R. gave me some painkillers, so it doesn’t hurt much,” Spike lies smoothly.  
  
Xander lets himself be pushed back into the pillows and turns on his bedside lamp. Bright, pain-filled eyes regard Spike’s bedraggled countenance from bruised looking hollows.  
  
“Oh, Spike . . . I wish you’d stop doing this.”  
  
“Don’t start, pet, please. . . .” Spike sits tiredly, but carefully on the edge of the bed, burying his face in dusty hands. Xander’s fingers brush the nape of his neck, then settle on his shoulder lightly, tentatively. Spike can feel the unnatural heat of him through the duster.  
  
It’s still  _Xander_ -heat, so he loves it . . . there’s just too bloody much of it and it’s starting to look like Spike won’t be able to do anything about it.  
  
“Can’t bear this,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Hurts too much.”  
  
“Babe. . . .” another too-warm hand, touches Spike’s back and he’s being pulled back into Xander’s too-warm embrace.  
  
“It needs a living body to possess . . . a soul to consume. If I coulda turned you, you wouldn’t have either to give it. It would wither and die before it’s even born.”  
  
This had, once upon a Thursday, been Spike’s hope.   
  
“The price is too high, Spike.”   
  
“You’d rather see your soul  _consumed_  than lost to you?” Spike demands angrily--more angry at himself than he is at Xander--turning to look at his ashen-faced lover. “I know what this thing will do. Seen it firsthand. Poor Fred. . . .”  
  
Xander’s too-warm nose touches the crown of Spike’s head. “Spike . . . I just don’t believe this thing can destroy something that’s infinite. How could it? How could it end like that? We helped save the world more times than I can count--it can’t end like that for me or for you.”  
  
“Never say never, love.”  
  
“Just think,” Xander exhales warmly, dryly in Spike’s ear. “One day, we’ll be in heaven, eating pizza and drinking beer and I’ll be gloating over how right I was and you’ll be calling me a wanker and hogging all the pepperoni. . . .”   
  
Xander sighs happily. “Heaven. We deserve nothing less.”  
  
“You may not deserve less, but I--” Spike shakes his head again. “I’ve done so many terrible things . . . don’t think I’ll ever get into heaven. I’d be lucky to slink my way into a bad neighborhood in Purgatory.”  
  
Another saharan breath stirs Spike’s hair. “Well,  _you_  may not deserve heaven, Big Bad, but I sure do. And my idea of heaven involves you, naked and hard for eternity. Kinda impossible for me to be in heaven if you aren’t there, too, hunh?”  
  
Spike smiles sadly. “Doesn’t work that way, pet. . . .”  
  
“Does, Spike.  _Does_. Trust me on this.” Xander’s using that soft, unshakable voice Dru had used when the stars had been at her. It’s a voice time has trained Spike not to discount.  
  
“Trust you on everything,” he admits. It feels like giving in; like sticking Xander with a death sentence.  
  
“Then don’t go out, tonight. Stay here with me.”  
  
Spike closes his eyes and lets Xander hold him as tight as his weak arms will allow.  
  
“Alright.”  
  


*

  
  
“Sing it.”  
  
“What?” Xander’s breathing had been so soft and even, Spike thought he’d fallen asleep.  
  
Xander sits up a little so he can look Spike in the eyes, his own dancing. “You  _know_  what, faker. Sing it.”  
  
“Xan--”  
  
“It’s my last request, Mister. You  _have_  to grant it--”  
  
 _\--Buffy and Angel’s wedding: Xander blushing, stammering, asking Spike if he could have this dance; the two of them ducking into the reception halls coatroom before the song even finishes playing;  
  
a terse non-argument on the long drive from Los Angeles to New York City, Spike turning on the radio just to drown out Xander’s calm, clipped voice and the song, _ their _song is playing, hanging between them like an armistice;  
  
this same song playing on their stereo when Xander opened up a package with no return address. Just a little wooden box with a snootful of dust is all it was.   
  
A spring mechanism launched the dust into Xander’s face and he gasped, inhaling it--  
  
\--then looked at Spike surprised, irritated.   
  
Amused.  
  
“That was the lamest practical joke ever. Spike, I’ve gotta say--you’re slipping in your old age,” Xander sneezed, then snickered. Spike had been frozen to the spot, newspaper slipping from nerveless fingers as Xander put the box on the counter and dropped the wrapping in the trash, already humming along with their song--_    
  
Spike blinks away the memories and glares at his smiling boyfriend. “You’re a heartless bastard, sometimes.”  
  
“I learned from the best.” That smile . . . it’s the one thing that hasn’t diminished; in spite of everything, it’s still big, still bright, still beautiful.  
  
The backs of Spike’s eyes start to sting, so he looks away, at the clock. Four-seventeen a.m.. The last four-seventeen a.m. Xander will ever see, though neither of them have acknowledged that directly.  
  
“ _At last,_ ” Spike begins shakily, his voice hoarse from weariness, heavy from the memories this song calls up. “ _My love has come along. . . ._ ”  
  
Xander lays back down in Spike arms with a contented sigh, snuggling into his favorite position. He sings the second line softly, but with a different emphases than Etta had: “ _My lonely days are_ over. . . .”   
  
“ _And life is like a song. . . ._ ”  
  


*

  
  
The end, when it comes, is bad.  
  
It’s  _really_  bad.  
  
This-- _thing_  is hollowing Xander out, clawing its bastard way out of him. Though wracked with pain, the most Xander can do is silently toss, trapped in dreams that burn like fire.   
  
He’s brittle, and painfully hot to the touch, but Spike holds him, nevertheless.  
  
Holds him till dawn. Then Xander opens his eyes and lets out his last, tortured breath. There’s a smile on his face when he does.  
  
Just like that, it’s over. Xander has lasted far longer than Spike would’ve thought--and six days longer than Fred had--but not nearly long enough. And now it’s over.  
  
Not with a bang or a whimper, but a sigh and a smile.  
  
“Fuck,” Spike exhales, hugging Xander’s poor body close, burying his face in hair that smells singed and lifeless. “Oh, fuck.”  
  
The sun’s first rays shine through the window, promising a day too bright and California-perfect to be Xander’s last. Spike turns them both, so his back is to the traitor-dawn. The body in his arms is heavy, hollow and unbreakable.  
  
“You better wait for me, git,” Spike whispers, tears running unnoticed down his face. “Don’t go takin’ up with some angel, or saint, or some bloke who actually deserves you . . . you just better wait for your Spike. Wait for me--”  
  
Xander’s body twitches once, violently. His eyes flutter and . . . change, from a soft, warm brown, to a virulent, glowing crimson. Crimson that flashes and spreads down the stiff, obsidian-hard body in Spike’s arms, leaving bronzy skin and red-brown armor in it’s wake.  
  
Then Spike’s flying through the air and hitting the wall opposite the bed at thirty, maybe forty miles an hour.  
  
It hurts. Quite a lot.  
  
Not nearly as much as losing Xander; Spike reckons few things would.  
  
Consciousness decides it’s not going to let Spike go just yet, even with the riptide of pain flaring throughout his body--broken ribs, shattered vertebra, fractured pelvis; it ain’t pretty, but Spike doesn’t care--so he starts laughing.   
  
Blood bubbles and drools out of his mouth, but Spike is laughing harder than he ever has.   
  
The creature that has appropriated Xander’s body sits up, stands up and regards Spike curiously, tilting its head in an oh-so-familiar--oh-so-expected--way.  
  
“Welcome back, your Highness.” Spike is nearly giggling, now, blood running down his chin and neck in thick, sluggish rills.  
  
“You are my Qwa’ha Xahn?” The interrogative in its bright, breathy, stolen voice is almost impossible to pick out. But Spike knows that voice better than his own; better than this thing ever will.  
  
He smiles coldly. “See--that’s the thing, mate. I’m  _not_  your little lackey. I’m just the bad, rude man that wrung the bitch’s neck.”  
  
The thing frowns, as if it doesn’t quite understand what it’s just been told. Spike considers repeating himself slowly and using smaller words, but that turns out to be unnecessary.  
  
“Why did you kill my Qwa’ha Xahn?” It inquires; not angrily, not anything but mildly perplexed.  
  
Spike shrugs--feels rib and collar bones scrape some things, and pierce others. “Seemed like the thing to do, at the time. ‘Sides, you killed my Xander. Couldn’t exactly pay you back in kind, but I did what I could.”  
  
It blinks, frowns; Xander’s beautiful face, worn by an unkillable monster. Spike wonders if it’s sifting through Xander’s memories, or merely wishing there was a nice potted fern around for it to commune with.  
  
" _You_  will be my Qwa’ha Xahn, then,” it decides, trying on a smile. Though it’s a mirthless, anemic curve of the mouth, in comparison to Xander’s smiles.   
  
A sudden wave of grief overwhelms Spike, makes him moan.  
  
It’s smile grows bigger, sharper as it stalks over to Spike, dark and deadly in red and bronze. There’s no compassion, no humanity in it. No gloating, even. As alien as Illyria had been, this thing is much, much stranger.  
  
“You will be my Qwa’ha Xahn, Spike,” it tells him, kneeling less than a foot away. This close, Spike can see the metallic sheen to it’s skin is flecked here and there with bloody crimson light. The heat baking out of it is alarming. “I will heal you and you will serve me until I am familiar with this world again. Then I will send you to join your mate.”  
  
Spike no longer allows himself the luxury of hope. “Out of curiosity . . . what happens if I don’t help you?”  
  
The thing abruptly tilts its head to regard Spike from another, only slightly different angle. “There were once dimensions of torture, unimaginable by humans and half breeds. Places where, when the body died, the soul was held, outside of time and visited by agonies that were never-ending.”  
  
As the thing speaks, it’s voice takes on a note Spike could almost call fond . . . wistful. All that keeps him from shuddering is his the extent of his injuries. “Cheers, pet. No place like home, is there?”  
  
Comes that inhuman smile again; bright, wry, amused at it’s Qwa’ha’zhon’s bravado.   
  
“Indeed, there is not. But I shall endeavor to change that.”  
  
Spike had been expecting this one to be as disoriented as Illyria had been, and for at least as long as Illyria had been. He understands, now, that he’s been wrong. So very wrong. Instead of being unfocused and overwhelmed by the changes time had wrought, this thing came to town primed and loaded for bear.  
  
 _God, if I was wrong about this, how many other things am I wrong about?_  
  
“Not a damn thing like Illyria, are you?” Spike’s laughing again, and sobbing. “Not a bloody, damn thing.”   
  
Narrowed eyes flash a baleful crimson, but the smile is as sharp as ever.  
  
“Illyria,” it says softly, thoughtfully. “I put her in her coffin once. I will do so again, if need be.”  
  
“Just like someone once put you in yours, Majesty?”  
  
A small, delighted laugh, as if Spike’s just impressed the teacher. “I can seal the Deeper Well with a thought. I  _will not_  go back . . . sweetie-pie. And I will allow nothing else to come out.”   
  
The thing reaches out and touches Spike’s chest. Heat flushes through him, first like a fever, then like being cooked alive from the outside in. As Spike writhes against the wall, he wonders brokenly if this is what Xander’s last moments had been like. . . .  
  
When the heat slowly ebbs, Spike realizes he has been picked up, is being carried.   
  
“I believe you will make an adequate Qwa’ha Xahn,” the thing says, sounding immensely satisfied.  
  
Dawnlight and a breeze hurts Spike’s sensitive eyes, his sensitive skin--even his sensitive teeth. They’ve gone outside.  
  
He whimpers.  
  
“Yes. I, too, find the light of this middling star unacceptable. Perhaps . . . perhaps that will be the first thing I change,” it muses.   
  
Healed, but weak and dehydrated, unable to snark, let alone struggle, Spike closes his eyes. Almost immediately after he does, there’s a sensation of falling and a rush of stingingly cool air on his scorched skin.  
  
It’s just stepped off the balcony of the apartment.   
  
Lost in grief and pain, Spike can’t even dredge up a thimbleful of anxiety for this disturbing development. He is, however, momentarily jarred out of his daze by landfall.  
  
 _Sorry niblet, sorry Red . . . sorry Buffy . . . I couldn’t do it. He asked me not to, and I couldn’t. . . ._  
  
It’s stride is brisk and quite nauseating in Spike’s current state. The only thing less pleasant is the song it’s singing:  
  
 _'Mid pleasures and palaces  
Though we may roam. . . ._  
  
This time, there’s no Wesley to tame the beast, no Wesley to invent a clever ray-gun that can render this thing--mostly--harmless.   
  
No Drogyn to talk some bloody sense into it.  
  
 _Be it ever so humble,  
There's no place like home.. . . ._    
  
Most of Spike’s hope had died with Xander.   
  
All that’s left now is the faintest dregs of hope that the time-bomb ticking away in his lover’s corpse goes off, and kills them all before this thing gets a chance to redecorate.  
  
Darkness swallows him then. Not the unconsciousness he desires so  _very_  much, but something else entirely.  
  
The sun has just turned black.


	2. A Place Where Time Isn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time has run out and Spike isn't busy anymore. Written for a songficathon:
> 
> Name: empty_inside  
> Preferred Pairing: S/X  
> Backup Pairing: S/W  
> Preferred Rating: R  
> 3 things you do NOT want to see: Het in any form, character death or pre season 4 setting.  
> Favorite Genre of fic(I.E. AU, Schmoop etc.): Schmangst that ends at least sort of happy or H/C  
> Any notes to me or your author?: Have fun!  
> Song: Etta James 'At Last'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Post-NFA, no spoilers.

Pain  
  
existence is no more and no less than this  
  
memories arise  
  
flames cut through him  
like knives  
  
his skin is crawling  
itching  
burning   
  
and  _she_  is too far away to offer coolness   
and comfort  
  
teeth so sharp  
they are surely fangs   
breach the pale  
fragile skin over his jugular  
  
he is wracked with pain as a sword  
is driven through him  
not for the first time  
and not for the last  
  
he is consumed by flames that cleanse  
as they kill   
  
and she doesn’t love him   
even now  
  
heart is beating  
oh god   
beating  
  
at last  
it is beating  
at last  
  
started  
  
just in time to stop  
  


*

  
  
dead  
  
he promised--  
  
dead  
  
dead  
  
he’s   
  
dead  
  
he   
is   
  
HE’S DEAD  
  
the worst pain of all  
the  _worst_  
the killer  
  
the one that is eternal  
  
the one that is punishment  
  
the one that is redemption  
  
the one that is key  
  
\--as in   
  
key knowledge  
to have at hand--  
  
is this fact  
  
he is dead  
  
memory is all  
  
and all is pain  
  
pain obliterates everything he is  
pain purifies him  
pain makes him clean  
makes him worthy--  
  
 _at last_  
  
worthy?  
  
 _at last_  
  


*

  
  
and then there’s nothing but burning hurty darkness   
  
for millennia   
for thousands of millennia   
for time out of time   
the burnyhurtydarkness shrieks it’s empty   
windblown silences   
from all directions  
  
 _so. . . ._  
  
help me, someone please--   
  
less than a voice   
but it’s his it is his  _own_    
a different thing entirely from the howling darkness   
that has been absorbed   
  
even into his deepest self  
  
 _. . . again?_  
  
never do it again don’t know what I’ve done swallowing me  
  
 _william???_  
  
swallowing me  
  
 _william . . ._  
  
help me  
  
love   
like a smile   
like a touch   
like salvation   
like benediction   
  
 _yes  
at last_  
  
love like a shroud made of light   
and cool water   
and golden song  
that covers and extinguishes   
all burnyness  
all hurtyness   
all darkness  
  
love   
  
eternities-deep   
  
unending   
  
saves him  
  
love   
with wings to bear him away--  
  


*

  
  
_crewe  
  
at last  
  
we meet  
  
we  
  
again?  
  
William oh at last--_  
  
grass that tickles his bare feet   
  
sky that tickles his hair  
  
love that tickles his soul  
  
 _forgive me  
time  
is hard to get the knack of  
linear time  
is especially hard to get the knack of_  
  
blood rushes to william’s head  
as if he’s just turned a cartwheel  
  
that voice is strange  
and strangely familiar  
  
 _so . . . we meet again?_  
  
turns   
his entire being   
is giddy  
is a flower seeking sunlight   
at the call of that half-remembered voice   
  
the white  
the light  
the eyes  
the laugh  
  
the welcoming smile approaching from across the field of   
daisies   
roses   
pillows   
green grass william finds himself in  
  
i’m--i’m afraid   
you have me at quite a disadvantage   
sir  
for I don’t recall our first meeting  
  
and frowns taste rather melancholy   
rather like rain   
  
and the smile  
the sphere of white light  
the young man  
is here  
  
he’s here  
so william says:  
  
everything shifts  
i can’t make out anything  
or make it stay solid  
or make it hold still  
  
 _Yes_  
  
and  
  
 _This place  
is consistent like that   
when I first arrived--_  
  
the smiling young sphere of white light laughs and   
it’s such a happy carefree sound   
that tastes like lemon gumdrops   
or caramel apples   
  
or the color periwinkle  
  
william’s own smile   
is easily drawn forth  
to fly away from him   
and chatter with the birds   
and mingle with the sky   
  
the white energy is  
  
walking  
wanting   
meeting him halfway  
  
 _when i first arrived  
i didn’t even remember   
who i was  
i clung to joyce   
and tara   
and ahn   
like something penicillin wouldn’t shift_  
  
amusement like the earth sighing   
and  
  
 _but they were sweet about it  
and eventually   
it all came back  
the good stuff anyway  
  
who i was  
  
where i was   
  
where i _am  
  
they are close now  
to each other  
  
william is close enough to smell the young man’s scent   
  
to smell ripe sun-warmed apples  
to smell freshly cut grass   
to smell sunshine  
  
and where are we  
sir  
pray tell  
  
 _here  
there  
everywhere  
nowhere  
it’s hard to explain  
  
we_   
are  
  
a brief flash of mischievous dark eyes  
  
a glimpse of serene brown eyes   
and William feels a flush spreading   
throughout his being  
  
 _i am_  
  
the glowing young man admits  
in tones  
the color of self-effacement  
  
william is perplexed  
and it tastes like  
porridge  
  
you are?  
  
 _yes_  
  
momentary joy   
that tastes like verdi  
but sounds like puccini  
  
 _call me xander  
if you care   
to call me at all_  
  
alexander harris   
william knows   
  
and says certainly  
  
it earns him a ripe peach of a chuckle  
  
william holds out a hand he doesn’t have   
it is gripped   
and held   
by warmth he cannot see  
  
but he can  _feel_  
  
and it resounds  
and it solidifies  
  
the world  
  
the field around him is grassy and thick with daisies   
and a young man   
with dark hair   
is shaking his hand  
  
dark gentle eyes mean everything to william and  
at the same time   
they mean nothing to him  
  
do i  
have i  
known you  
  
 _yes_  
  
the smiling young man   
who can’t decide if he wants to be a ball of white light  
a mist of swirling rainbow colors  
or some odd breed   
of dog  
looks down into william’s eyes  
  
 _warm days and pleasant nights_  
  
his voice is low and intimate   
like honey  
  
william shakes his head   
to loose it of such niggling thoughts  
  
and the world explodes into light  
darkness  
the strange-grey   
of in-between places  
  
it staggers him  
and fells him  
  
he doesn’t realize he’s cowering   
until strong arms pull him up  
  
you walk in beauty  
  
william whispers  
to the arms  
to the eyes  
to the energy that laughs  
like delighted rainbows  
  
because he is lost again   
he knows he won’t be found  
  
he is quite alright with that  
  
because xander walks in beauty  
  
“Like the night   
Of cloudless climes and starry skies  
And all that’s best of dark and bright  
Meet in your aspect, and your eyes  
Thus mellowed to that tender light  
Which Heaven to gaudy Day denies”  
  
william declares   
in a voice  
that could crack the dome of the sky  
  
but doesn’t  
  
xander’s laugh   
is like freshly peeled oranges  
tart   
and fragrant   
  
 _william crewe  
the poet_  
  
xander doesn’t seem   
to be enamored of letting go   
of william’s hand   
or of william’s being   
in the immediate future  
  
this is a constant  
more reliable  
more believable  
than the theory of evolution  
or of gravity  
which william is beginning to have serious doubts about  
  
poet   
my dear sir--  
only if one   
were to go by the most general meaning of the word  
could one such as i  
be labeled ‘poet’   
  
william’s chagrin tastes like old coins  
  
because william   
is such an awfully bad poet  
terrible  
really   
  
yet   
the word  _effulgent_  spring to mind   
when he tries to recall his own works  
  
neatly sweeping away the fact   
that until he’d said it  
he’d had no idea of his own artistic leanings  
william blushes  
  
it feels like being wrapped in woolen blankets  
that don’t itch  
but have the potential to  
  
 _well_  
  
comes the dark chocolate of xander’s voice  
  
 _i don’t know much about poetry_  
  
and the warm  
sweet  
scent of his breath  
  
 _but I know what I like_  
  
that warmth surrounds william  
fills him  
  
 _i like what you write._  
  
approbation wraps him up  
and carries him away  
  
 _i like_ you  
  
a sphere of rainbow colors envelopes him like a mantle  
a smiling young man embraces him   
a dog settles contentedly at his feet  
  
xander  
  
you are  
  
beautiful  
sweet  
lovely  
unattainable  
perfection  
too kind  
  
sir   
  
william stammers  
and basks  
  
xander’s regard is like floating on air  
or on water  
  
but i know my own shortcomings  
william adds   
with a touch of melon-flavored melancholy  
  
though william expects one  
there is no token protest  
of the sort that is only made   
out of kindness  
  
\--for xander is a kind man  
above all else  
william senses this--  
  
xander merely ducks his head   
  
 _as you say william_  
  
agreement   
like the prick of snowflakes against his face  
  
and william   
can’t help but feel   
that xander vehemently disagrees with him  
is only humoring him  
as william's peers are wont to do  
  
this time   
however  
william is in on the joke  
  
shall i write you an ode  
then  
or a sonnet  
perhaps   
  
 _yes_  
  
shall i write you something   
give you tangible proofs  
by which you shall be shown  
the folly of misplaced faith  
  
william looks down  
at his feet   
the dog yawns  
and grins up at him  
and laughs at him  
for being such a fool  
  
the silence is long  
  
\--feels like taffy  
but tastes like scones--  
  
and eventually william looks up   
into xander’s handsome face   
catches a look of intense longing   
and hope   
on xander’s friendly face  
  
 _I would like that very much  
william_  
  
then i  
shall endeavor not to disappoint you  
sir  
  
 _you never have  
you never could  
because i love you_  
  
there they stand   
holding hands   
and smiling at each other   
  
for at least half an eternity  
  
neither of them   
notices the time passing   
  
perhaps this is because   
in this place  
  
time   
  
 _isn’t_  
  


*

  
  
in a place   
where   
time does not pass  
  
in a place  
where  
all times are now  
  
in that place  
that word  _place_  
makes less sense  
that a toddler’s giggle  
  
but in that place  
william remembers the good  
and the pain slips away  
lost  
but not forgotten  
  
it is deep  
a part of him  
it shapes him  
it does not define him  
any longer  
  
in this time  
that is not  
  
in this place  
that is not  
  
william becomes whole again  
becomes himself  
is all of himself  
but not  
  
he   
is also something else entirely  
he thinks thoughts  
that are not his own  
  
and the place that is not  
in the when that is not  
is another set of nots  
entirely  
  
not:  
what he thought  
  
not:  
at all  
  
heaven  
  
he reflects  
petting his dog  
holding his young man  
and basking in the sphere of rainbow light  
  
is nothing like i imagined  
pet  
  
 _nothing?_  
  
nothing  
  
william smiles  
and says  
  
they let me in  
  
heaven let me in  
so  
it is nothing like i imagined  
  
a taste like:  
  
beer  
pepperoni  
fondness  
  
 _i  
told you so  
  
you are here  
you have always  
been here  
  
you will always  
be here_  
  
xander's laugh  
shoots   
through william's being   
like raspberry-flavored lightning  
smug  
and infinitely good-natured  
  
william's dog grins  
william's young man grins  
and the light that shines on them all  
flashes   
like polished brass  
  
a voice  
  
strong  
deep  
golden  
  
a voice  
clear  
shining  
ephemeral  
  
a song that is first snowfall  
first cherry blossoms  
first love  
  
first reciprocity  
  
a song that is  _theirs_  
  
and many other things  
besides  
  
it fills eternity  
completes it  
  
william smiles  
  
so  
here we are  
  
 _yes_  
  
this place  
is nothing more than the smile   
xander bestows upon him  
  
 _here we are_  
  
in heaven  
  
william thinks  
knows  
is amazed by  
  
warm agreement that tastes like pizza  
like twinkies  
like an issue   
of The Uncanny Xmen--  
  
 _in heaven  
and you are mine  
mine  
mine_  
  
\--that's still in the original plastic  
  
permeates him  
  
 _at last_  
  
and warmth surrounds him  
  
and it is perfect  
  
and he is worthy  
  
at last.


End file.
